The Reunion
I was still in the bath when Anthony got home. I told him all about my night and I was pretty sure he was trying not to laugh at me.
‘It isn’t funny,’ I told him, squeezing bubbles from my sponge.
‘I’m not laughing, I swear,’ he said. ‘Let’s go out tomorrow night. I’ll come and meet you after work. I’ll be up in town for an interview and we can meet for a drink. As long as no one mistakes me for your pimp, it should be a good night. What do you say?’
I gave him a dirty look but I’d relaxed in the bath long enough to see the funny side by then.
‘Well don’t take me for a drink out of pity,’ I said. ‘Riley wanted to do that. But she did mention a place that sounded good. I’ll text you the details tomorrow.’
‘It’s a date, then,’ Anthony said.
The bar Riley had spoken about was a block away from the office. It was a hotel with a rooftop restaurant and bar. Anthony sent a text to say his interview had only just started, later than scheduled, and I said I’d take my time finishing up at work and to be as quick as he could.
Anthony was still in the interview at seven. I was at my desk twiddling my thumbs and longing for booze.
So, I set off, knowing I’d have some hanging around to do on my own. But it was Friday evening; the place would probably be busy with the after-work crowd and I could just try to blend in.
At the hotel I took the lift to the top floor. I stepped into a little passageway that led directly onto the bar. It was far from busy up there and I was likely to stick out like a sore thumb. The extremely long, dark wood bar with chrome piping was directly to the left as I walked in. Opposite and across a wide-open floor space of tables and chairs was a floor to ceiling window. It took up the entire width of the wall. Leather sofas were twinned across coffee tables by the window. In a corner was a grand piano, open but not being played. Three of the tables, covered in white linen cloths, were taken up by couples and, in the centre, a small but boisterous party of people sat bad-mouthing their boss at the tops of their voices.
I walked the length of the bar and sat on a high, cranberry-coloured stool, passing the only other person at the bar: a man in a dark shirt, knocking back brandy from a large glass while staring at his phone. I sat as far from him as possible.
The restaurant, just to my right, was on the other side of a large arch. A few early diners sat chatting over dinner.
‘What will you have?’ the barman asked.
‘I’ll have a whisky, your best. Double. No ice.’
There was slow, soft music being piped through the speakers. The barman placed my drink in front of me.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Would you like to see the bar menu?’ he asked. He waved it playfully under my nose but I shook my head. Just then I heard the lift arrive at the top floor with a ping and prayed Anthony had travelled up in it. Sadly he hadn’t but I was startled to see two people I hadn’t seen since I was seventeen. They were chatting away very loudly and hadn’t spotted me at first. My immediate instinct was to grab the bar menu and shove it in front of my face.
‘Magenta Bright. Of all people. Surely not.’
These blasts from the past were girls I’d gone to private school with. They weren’t girls any longer but two grown women who swooped down on me, smothering me with hugs and kisses, when thirteen years ago they would never have given me the time of day. But there was Cressida Vanderburg and Coco Berner-Blythe, both dressed from head to toe in shades of pink, hair dyed the same shade of blonde as each other, acting as though we’d all been the best of friends.
While I sat in stunned amusement at all this, they chattered away enthusiastically about what they referred to as the good old days. They blathered on about the best days of our lives and I wondered if they’d mixed me up with another Magenta Bright from school.
‘Of course I read all about your achievements,’ said Cressida. ‘Shearman Bright. Who would have thought you’d do so well?’
‘Well, certainly not you two.’ I smiled.
Cressida and Coco had money coming out of their pores. Though my parents were just as rich, if not more so, they had always deemed my parents’ respective fortunes of lower value because Cressida Vanderburg’s father was in banking and Coco Berner-Blythe’s family was in oil. They’d decided, at age fourteen, that making a fortune selling underwear or being in hospitality was somehow inferior to the banking industry or drilling for oil.
It had never occurred to me that the international lingerie company owned by my mother or the hotel and property business Father owned should have less prestige. After all, what was wrong with staying at nice hotels and wearing expensive knickers?
‘Who are you here with?’ asked Coco, her Texas drawl cast out of her years ago since her parents shipped her over to England from Austin to become refined.
‘I’m waiting for my boyfriend,’ I said, getting my phone out to see the time. Just then I got a text from Anthony.
You won’t believe it, still being interviewed. Expecting a photographer for a shoot. Didn’t know before. Sorry. Raincheck?
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Looks like he’s not coming after all.’
Coco and Cressida both looked at each other and back to me, squealing, ‘Then, you must join us.’
Before I could protest and tell them I should really be going they hooked my underarms and swept me, toes scuttling across the floor, to their reserved table in the restaurant.
‘We will be three for dinner,’ Cressida informed the waitress. ‘Now, Magenta, tell us all about Shearman Bright. When did you first decide to become a celebrity entrepreneur?’ Cressida became agitated by the waitress – who was simply trying to lay out menus – and waved her away as you would a fly.
‘I’m hardly a celebrity,’ I said. ‘One interview on Radio 4 is the closest I’ve come to it. Unless, of course, you count the time I was stuck in an elevator with Hugh Grant.’
‘Oh come on,’ said Cressida. ‘You may as well assume celebrity status. You’re doing remarkably well. I’ve seen you in magazines, newspapers. And your best friend is Anya Stankovic.’
‘Anya’s the celebrity,’ I said, eyes on the cutlery. ‘It’s not as if it rubs off. I’m just a simple businesswoman, working hard.’
‘Well not so hard by the looks of things,’ Coco said. ‘You look amazing. So … so classy.’
And I wasn’t before?
‘Thank you, I think.’ I slugged back a large swig of whisky. I needed it to take effect and quick. It wasn’t the kind of night out I was hoping to have, and Cressida and Coco were not the type of new friends I wanted to find since Anya was no longer in my life. But they were entertaining and I wasn’t in a rush to get home. I sent Anthony a text to tell him I’d met up with some people and he said he’d see me at home.
As the evening wore on I allowed myself to be swept away by Cressida and Coco’s intimate knowledge of everything that had become of each girl in our old form room. It was as if they’d had private investigators track the whereabouts of all fifteen of them. They knew every marriage, divorce, number of children, and career move and went through them in the order the girls appeared on the register.
Just after hearing about Davina Parker’s dabble with lesbianism and the fact she’d married a man ten years her junior, I thought I might contribute to the conversation.
‘So, you’re both married, I see,’ I put in.
‘Can you believe we had a double wedding?’ asked Coco.
‘Actually, yes I can,’ I said. ‘And don’t tell me, you married brothers, right?’
‘Twins,’ exclaimed Cressida.
‘Damn,’ I said. I’d been joking. ‘So you two have the same surname too?’
‘You’re looking at the Huntley-Warner sisters,’ they said in unison. ‘In law!’ Again, said at the same time and with the same high-pitched giggle to follow.
‘Wow,’ I said clapping my hands together they way they had. ‘That’s just … it’s well, it’s wonderful.’
‘So when do you marry the artist?’ asked Coco. ‘We read all about him, too.’ They exchanged glances.
‘Oh, there’s no rush,’ I said.
‘No rush?’ Cressida looked extremely concerned. ‘Haven’t you been together for two years now?’
‘A year and eight months,’ I said. ‘But who’s counting?’ I drained my third double whisky.
‘You should be,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to let him go. He’s from good stock, Magenta. An artist. And not to mention handsome as hell.’
‘Looks aren’t everything,’ I said, signalling to the waitress to bring me more whisky. I wasn’t sure I could handle a fourth. I was already buzzing comfortably along, but the drink was making the night a bit more fun. ‘So, tell me, ladies, how many children do you each have?’
Of course, they each had two: a boy and girl. Matching children – I should have known. Their children were all under five but yet they were all having music classes in several instruments, language lessons, gluten-free diets, and going to private Montessori school. It was like being in the editing suite of an episode of The Real Housewives of Super Rich Suburbia.
‘They must keep you busy,’ I said, downing more whisky and wondering if I should stay for another instalment. They’d chatted at me, non-stop, through the whole of the main course. ‘How do you manage to fit in work, the gym, the beauty salon, and weekends at your country homes? With all that going on it must be hard to find time for the little ones.’
‘Magenta!’ said Coco, looking at me as if I’d gone mad. ‘That’s what the staff is for.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me,’ I said. ‘But you must do something for your children … yourselves, I mean?’
They looked at me, blankly, and then I could see their brains going into overdrive. Just by looking at their perfectly manicured nails and puzzled expressions I could tell the only motherly thing they’d done was give birth. Unless they had staff for that, too.
While they were thinking I noticed, at the entrance to the bar, which had begun to fill up since being in the restaurant, that there seemed to be a bit of a commotion. Peering through the arch I saw Anya had arrived with an entourage and they were deciding where to sit. I craned my neck as I watched the entourage glide across the bar and head in the direction of the grand piano and the leather sofas. Anya hadn’t noticed me, as was her way. She never looked around for anyone she knew; everyone was too busy looking at her. She and her party were out of sight, thankfully, and I could relax.
Cressida and Coco didn’t relax at all when they saw Anya and company.
‘Wasn’t that …?’ Cressida said, flapping her hands and getting up out of her seat. ‘Should we go and say hello?’
I pulled her down by the wrist.
‘No one approaches Anya Stankovic in public places without her express invitation,’ I said very quickly through tight lips. There wasn’t an ounce of truth in that statement but I wasn’t going to tell those two that I was no longer talking to Anya. They might turn on me. I’d suffered their bitchy wrath at school; they’d once sent me to Coventry for a whole term because I said I liked hip-hop instead of Handel, and I didn’t want a scene.
Most of all I didn’t want Anya to see me with Cressida and Coco. She would balk at my choice of dinner companions and would know I’d hit rock bottom on the friends front. Cressida and Coco were exactly the type of women Anya and I said we couldn’t stand: super-rich, super-snobby, and super-pretentious all wrapped up in pink, designer dresses and contoured make-up.
‘How about if you text her and let her know you’re here?’ asked Coco. Inadvertently I’d taken out my phone so I could order an Uber. I had to get out of that bar without being seen by Anya or at least Anya not seeing me with them.
‘Look.’ I nodded to the bar. We hadn’t noticed her come in earlier but Keira Knightley was sitting on a barstool, her long legs crossed, engrossed in conversation with friends. ‘It’s Keira Knightley.’
Cressida and Coco were distracted. While they were oohing and aahing about Keira’s last film, I was scanning the periphery for an escape route. The emergency exit was via the closed patio windows with iron steps leading down to street level, but it was a rooftop bar and I’d get vertigo tying to climb down them. Besides how would I cover up the sound of the fire alarm going off when I pushed open the windows?
A waitress came through with a tray from the kitchen and I did a quick recce of the possibility of sneaking into the kitchen unnoticed. But surely the sisters of doom would blow it for me, calling after me and asking why I was going into the servants’ quarters.
‘I’ve come across a bit faint,’ I said rubbing my head with a fake swoon. ‘I think I overdid it with the whisky.’
‘We did wonder,’ said Cressida raising an over-plucked eyebrow at Coco.
‘If you don’t mind, I think I should go,’ I said in a fading voice. I hadn’t worked out an escape plan yet. ‘I should give you some money towards –’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Cressida said placing a chilly hand on mine. ‘You can just remember us next time you do a show.’
‘Oh, naturally,’ I said.
Several escape scenarios played out in my head as I picked up Coco’s water glass and started flicking water in my face to sober up:
1. Run as fast as hell towards the door, don’t trip, don’t wait for the lift, bolt for the stairs
2. Take my chances with the fire escape. Pull off the tablecloth while leaving the contents of the table intact and use the tablecloth as a parachute to avoid the steep steps
3. Find a disguise and casually walk out avoiding eye contact with anyone
I could feel Coco and Cressida’s inquisitive looks as I fine-tuned a plan. That’s when I noticed our waitress leaving the kitchen with a tray of bar snacks. It was a large silver platter that she held at shoulder level. She weaved her way casually around the tables on her way towards the arch that joined the restaurant to the bar.
‘Must dash. Not well,’ I said. Covering my mouth for effect, I shot out of my chair, grabbed my bag, and waved goodbye to Cressida and Coco. I angled myself close enough to the waitress with the tray so as not to alarm her but for her to be my human shield from Anya as the waitress walked through the bar.
I bowed my head, bent my knees, so I matched the waitress’s height, and hoped to God the tray wasn’t intended for Anya’s party. Luckily it wasn’t but the waitress was only able to shield me for half the length of the bar. She stopped in the middle, lowered the tray, and began placing side plates of food on the bar next to Keira Knightley.
I stood perfectly still in my crouched position, looking at Keira Knightley’s feet as the waitress walked away with the empty tray. Knightley’s party, some of whom were either seated or standing around the actress, were stunned to silence at my abrupt entry to their circle. Slowly my eyes swept up Keira’s frame pausing on her lap where I noticed a Shearman Bright handbag.
The silence bore into me until one of them shouted, ‘Hey, aren’t you Magenta Bright?’
I rose to my full height. I could feel all eyes on me and the distinct feeling that Anya had heard my name bellowed out and had turned her elegant neck in my direction. My face burned in embarrassment.
Keira’s informant went on to remind her that she was carrying one of my bags. Keira smiled at me. I smiled back and attempted to leave but Cressida and Coco had followed me out of the restaurant and were blocking my path.
‘Their shoes!’ cried Cressida clapping her hands together. ‘I buy their shoes – that’s what I do for my children.’
Over Cressida’s shoulder I could see Anya. She was staring hard in that icy way of hers, from me and then to Cressida and Coco.
‘I knew you’d grow up to be w-wonderful mothers,’ I stuttered. ‘But I really must go.’
My cover blown, I turned and backed out of the bar as discreetly as I could, well as discreetly as a person who was trying to edge away from two women in pink dresses in the middle of a bar. As I tiptoed backwards to the lift, Coco and Cressida were calling out and squealing, ‘Anya, Anya Stankovic! Look, it’s Magenta.’
The lift took for ever to arrive and when it did I slammed my hand on the ground floor button and closed my eyes, trying to magic the whole sorry evening away.
Next time, I’d go with the parachute idea.